


The Seething Rain Weeps for You

by petiteprat



Category: No. 6 - Asano Atsuko
Genre: Angst, Mental Breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petiteprat/pseuds/petiteprat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nezumi's temper is a force to be reckoned with, and perhaps he himself isn't capable of handling it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seething Rain Weeps for You

He tightened his grip, the tips of his fingers digging in to the yielding flesh, feeling the frantic pulse on his—

Neck.

There’s something about the sporadic thumping under his clammy fingers that he finds close to erotic. The fear, he thinks. Or the helplessness.

The face before him is turning blue, blue, blue. A pretty color, he muses. It compliments his white, white hair.

The color of ice, of death.

His grip loosened, allowing his—victim? Lover?—to breathe a little; taste the sweet, sweet air in his nostrils, lungs, dying brain. He coughed, wheezed, drawing in air that barely fills his lungs, tears welling up in his eyes.

_Cry,_ the voice in his mind snarled. _I dare you to cry and bare your weakness, your inadequacy. Cry, little boy._

Right on cue, the boy in front of him began to weep. Tears welled up, spilling over, trailing down, down his cheeks, down, down to his jaw, down and dripping onto his hands, his hands that are still on his—

Neck.

Pleased, he slid his hands down from his neck, down to his shoulders, fingers curling, catching on the ends of the smooth fabric of his jumper, thumbs brushing the hint of collarbone peeking from underneath.

His fingers had left purple bruises on his neck, adorning it with pretty patterns. Pretty as the smell of a rotting rose, pretty as the sound of despair-filled whimpers, pretty as the sight of two lovers intertwined, even in death.

The bruises are, he noted, amused, quite like the serpentine strip of red that curls around his body, from his ankles up to his thighs, his torso, all the way to his—

Neck.

He smiled, a slow, sensual quirk of his lips, a smile of arrogance and victory, of egos stroked and of wishes—demands, really—fulfilled. His eyes never left his; he’d wanted to make sure that he didn’t miss anything, the fear, the desperation.

He'd lived in fear and desperation, had learned to live with it, to savor it, to find solace in it. Learned to love the look and taste of it, finding its exquisite tang addictive, satisfying. He learned how to differentiate its array of taste, avoiding the ones that made bile rise up his throat, delicately pursuing the ones that filled his mind with euphoria.

The fear of death.

He'd always had a thing for—necks. Finds them attractive, alluring. Wants to leave marks on the smooth expanse, wants to curl his fingers around it, to feel nearly invincible, knowing that someone's life is literally in his hands, his to snuff out, his to spare. Finds the rhythmic (and occasionally sporadic) pulse erotic, knows that nothing turns him on more than watching someone struggle to breathe, to fill their lungs with precious air, watch them turn blue, blue, blue.

To him, nothing tastes better than fear and asphyxiation, mingling.

His hands travelled up, fingers tightening minutely when he passed his—neck. Smirks when he heard the sharp inhale of breath. His fingertips danced along bruised skin, noting its tenderness, its vulnerability. Traced the edge of his tense jaw, cupped his cheeks, his cold, cold fingers leeching warmth from the tear-stained face of his.

He murmured, tone low and soothing, contradicting his words—after all, he do so love riling him up, pushing his boundaries, keeping him on his toes—because really, did he really think that wholeheartedly accepting the fact that he’ll never return to the Holy City would change his being fundamentally, he said. He wouldn’t be able to handle the real world, he said.

A kid with an affinity to act before he think is a burden for everyone around him, he said.

He hit a nerve, he knew. Knew that that would cripple his budding self-worth, his already damaged self-esteem. _Good,_ he thinks. _It’s all his fault after all._

His tears began anew, his eyes welling up, his feelings hurt. He could almost taste it on his tongue, his crushed self-worth, his doubts permeating the air. He leaned closer, puffs of air hitting his cheek, turning the tears cold. He kissed his cheek, tongue lapping up his tears, the taste of salt and potent despair hitting his taste buds, heightening his senses, his giddiness. He laughed, low and rumbling, feeling the now-smaller boy shiver, the tremors travelling up his spine, spreading throughout his body, his limbs, and even to the tip.

Of.

His.

Fingers.

He didn’t notice the fingers curling on the hem of his shirt, not until the tremors shook the fabric. He finds it strange, the fact that the boy in front of him isn’t fazed, scared, terrified out of his mind. At least not to the point where he actually fears him, fears for his life. He cocked his head, quietly impressed by the boy’s idiotic bravery.

He saw his lips move, but he didn’t register what he said until a few seconds after, when the silent echoes of his pitiful croak managed to get through the euphoria-induced haze that blanketed his mind.

_Nezumi._

He couldn’t describe what happened to himself, why he yanked on his arms, throwing him on the bed, fingers once again latched onto his neck, constricting, squeezing his throat. He likes to think that it’s because he was insulted; his name shouldn’t be said with a voice that cracks, creaks like an old mechanical object, because he _should_ fear him.

It’s probably because of the pang in his chest when he heard his voice, his name being called, because of the barely-there plea in the croak, the whisper.

_Don’t._

He’d never went this far before, strangling someone for something other than sheer enjoyment. He’d had a string of lovers before, people who like to play with fire, those who knew that they’d never be able to be emotionally close with him. Nevertheless, they never failed to think that they’re in love with him, forcing him to send them packing, their pleas falling on deaf ears, unheeded.

_Nezumi._

_No_ , he thinks. _This is wrong_.

_Don’t._

_Don’t._

_Don’t._

_Shut up._ He screamed. _Shut up._ Again. Again. Again. _Shut up._ Why isn’t he basking in his—

_Ne..._

He willed his mind, his senses, to drink in the scene before him, rejoice in it, savor it; the blue, bloodless face, the widened eyes, the palpable _fear._

Resignation?

_This isn’t fear._

His fingers are numb, unfeeling. Uncurled, going lax, skin barely touching the frantically twitching muscle in his—neck. Ragged breaths, hacking coughs. He stayed like that, kneeling, spine curved, looming over the desperately wheezing figure beneath him. His face is blotchy, red, teary. Flushed, flushed all over, his face, even his—

Neck.

Strips of blue, purple, scattered all over.

His doing, his marks.

All over his—

Neck.

His hand moved, barely, intending to trace the marks, the bruises.

He stopped. Saw the fear bubbling up in his eyes, no, it doesn’t belong there, it’s wrong.

_There shouldn’t be anything other than defiance and challenge in them._

He pauses, thinks. Knows that his bout of lunacy, of peculiarity, the damage that it has done, is irreversible.

_Does he really care?_

_No._

_No._

_No._

_Never._

His mind snaps, remembering. Halts, screams for all to hear, a myriad of fragments of himself, different—personalities, if you will—facets of his mind, his thoughts.

_You shouldn’t kill someone who saved your life. You owe him a life debt._

_You shouldn’t become attached to anyone, ever. Never make yourself vulnerable, not voluntarily, never voluntarily._

_No._

_Which?_

_The latter—_

_The former._

_But—_

A fingertip, skating across his cheek, tracing the edges of his screwed-shut eyes.

_There._

He opened his eyes, finding that the—fear—is gone from his eyes.

He can’t think. Not clearly.

He jerked back, because really, he hasn’t—had he really—he.

Feels something for the person before him.

Attachment.

No.

No.

_No._

_Cut it off, get rid of it, I’ve to survive, I can’t—_

_Don’t._

He can’t breathe. Too much. Too soon. He needs—solitude, he needs him to—

A palm, on his cheek, a low murmur of _what’s going on in that head of yours_ and _tell me_ and _I’m not holding it against you.  
Calm down. _

He does.

_Stop overthinking._

He stops.

He felt his body going lax, tension leaving him, his mind, letting Shion manhandle him, arrange him on the bed, the aftermath of his near-epiphany draining the remnants of his energy.

_Again. He’s doing it again._

He felt a faint stirring next to him, a faint whisper of _doing what again?_

_Did I say that out loud?_

A chuckle, a huff of _yes._

He shuts his eyes, breathes out a question. _Why?_

A kiss.

_Never would’ve thought that you bat for the other team._

_Huh?_

_Forget it._

He opens his eyes, sees him laying down next to him, sees the bruises, the marks.

He kisses them in apology.

Felt a faint stirring of warmth. _No, his common sense started to argue. _This is wrong.__

He’s too tired to think, eyelids drooping.

 

The next time he opened his eyes, he’s lying next to him, curled on his side, and he couldn’t help notice the bruises. His mind is clearer, he thinks, sleep restoring some of his sanity. He traces them with his eyes, their curves, and he felt uneasiness spread through him. _I feel attached to him,_ he admited to himself. _This will get me killed, sooner or later._

He knows that he should get rid of it, sooner rather than later, and he entertained the thought of smothering him in his sleep, spare him from having to go through the fear of knowing that you’re going to die.

He stops his train of thoughts, wonders if he’ll be able to go through the act of killing Shion, wonders if it’ll scar him emotionally. His hand twitched, inching closer to the pillow that they shared.

_Perhaps._

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this piece when I was about halfway done with the third book, or around the end of it. I kind of wanted to explore the posibility of a less mentally stable Nezumi, and for that, I apologize if this ended up being OOC.


End file.
